Leaving the Silver Sanctuary was not a decision; it was an escape.

  After that presence, the place was no longer a refuge. It had become an underground cage, breathing the memory of something that had passed above them without a backward glance. No one uttered a word as they began the ascent through the narrow stone fissure. Even Jadig—who never knew the meaning of silence—walked with a clenched jaw, his eyes tracking shadows as if they might pounce at any second.

  When they emerged, they were not greeted by the sun.

  Instead, they met a pale, grey light, as if the sky itself had lost its zest for existence. The valley stretched before them… wider than it should be, plunging to depths the eye could not grasp. The air was heavier here, stagnant, carrying no scent of plant or earth—only the smell of ancient stone, of long-suffering patience, and oblivion.

  “The sanctuary is no longer safe,” Ikida said softly, outlining the plan. “We will take the path through the silver moss, staying clear of the other tribes' territories. We cannot afford to be noticed.”

  The journey began amidst the silver moss. Each step was taken with agonizing caution, as if the earth itself might spit them out should they falter. The wind snaked between them like a spy, and the silver moss, disturbed by their passing, sent ghostly flickers of light dancing against the walls. Every echo, every movement, every clatter of a small stone was amplified in their minds, fueling the dread that something was watching—something that had never known mercy.

  Hours passed… or perhaps minutes; time seemed lost in the estrangement of this world. Then, as they reached a high ledge overlooking the valley, a silence heavier than stone fell over them. It pressed against their chests, as if the valley itself held its breath, awaiting the reveal. Amazal’s consciousness snapped back to the present. He pointed downward, his voice trembling.

  “Look… there.”

  It did not reveal itself all at once. Like a painful truth, it was uncovered slowly, ruthlessly. They stood on the edge and froze. There, in the heart of the valley, the rocks were not merely rocks.

  They were bodies.

  Giants.

  Towering figures petrified in positions no living being would choose for death. One had an arm raised as if mid-scream; another was hunched on a knee; a third had half his face turned toward the sky, mouth agape in a silent cry that was never completed. Another lay on his back, eyes wide—not in terror, but in absolute bewilderment.

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  They were not lined up. They were not prepared. They were… interrupted.

  “These...” Jadig’s voice came out hoarse, stripped of mockery for the first time. “These are the ones whose footsteps made empires tremble.”

  No one answered.

  Vaelor approached slowly, as if his body feared being held accountable for every step. “Giants are not defeated like this,” he said. “And they do not die without ruin.”

  Ikida reached out and touched the cracked stone of a giant's arm. “They didn’t petrify over time,” he said with a lethal calm. “This happened… in a single moment.”

  Amazal looked around, his chest tightening. “What could do this?”

  No one replied. For the question was not what… but who.

  The Giants—those who made the earth quake beneath their feet—stood here… and then they ceased to be. No battle, no ruin, not even a trace of completed resistance.

  “If this was their fate…” Cillian whispered, then trailed off. She didn't need to finish. The fear wasn't from seeing death, but from seeing what could kill something like this.

  They pressed on. And at the heart of the valley—where the Giants clustered as if seeking shelter—the City appeared.

  It was not a city of streets; it was a City of Columns. A thousand pillars, carved from harsh mountains, unmarred by primitive tools or chaos. Every column was hewn with a precision that insulted everything humans knew of craftsmanship. The palaces weren't built… they were extracted from the mountains, as if the city had been sleeping inside the stone and the Giants had liberated it with majestic tenderness.

  “This was not built for war…” Vaelor whispered. “But for eternity.”

  But it was all silent. Dead. Waiting.

  And in the center of the city, where the columns bowed not in submission but in respect, something else rose.

  A Tree.

  Its height wasn't what first unnerved them, nor its trunk that rivaled fortresses, nor its roots that split the rock as if the mountains were created only to make way for it. It was the feeling. As if the entire place… remembered.

  “As if the whole valley… revolves around it,” Cillian said.

  They felt it. A faint pulse—not a sound, but a sensation—passing through their feet, through the stone, through the air itself.

  Amazal swallowed hard. “If this was their heart… what happened when it stopped beating?”

  The city was not destroyed. The tree was not dead. The Giants were not slaughtered. Something had simply passed through… and made even the titans stop.

  Vaelor—who never faltered, who faced death with ink and logic—halted. He stared. He took one step… then another. And suddenly—he laughed.

  A loud, clear, echoing laugh. It climbed the stone pillars and scaled the mountain walls, returning to them multiplied and strange, an unwelcome sound in a place that suffocates fear.

  “Vaelor?” Ikida gripped his bow, hand on the string. Cillian tightened her hold on her sword.

  “Have you lost your mind, old fool?” Jadig hissed.

  Vaelor laughed again, shorter this time, as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. “I don’t… I don’t believe it…” He raised his head slowly, his eyes gleaming with something they hadn't seen—not madness, but the breaking of certainty.

  “It’s real. The Odyr Tree.”

  A charged silence followed.

  “I read about it,” he continued, his voice trembling. “In margins, in redacted texts, in legends said to be written only to frighten children… and I cursed myself for believing half of it.” He reached toward the trunk without touching it. “It is here… the heart of the valley. The heart of the Giants.”

  Then, with a sharp tone of biting wonder, he smiled. “How much would Aglid pay now… to trade places with me?”

  No one laughed. But Vaelor wasn't finished. He raised his voice slightly, as if addressing the void: “And you, Wasar… you hiding fox… I know this was your eternal dream.”

  Amazal shuddered. He didn't ask who Wasar was. The way the name was spoken made him feel that its owner… might be listening.

  Vaelor lowered his voice at last, regaining his composure, though his eyes remained anchored to the tree. “We are not standing in a dead city,” he said. “We are standing before a headstone for a world… that was too grand to be forgiven.”

  They stood for a long time. Small. Silent. Under countless columns and before a tree that was no longer just a tree, they understood one thing:

  Tizra does not create legends.

  Tizra… ends them.